Even if you know how to type,some of the keys will stick, some of the keys may hesitate,leaving a faded letterin the middle of a word.It’s inevitable.Some of the keysmay not function as they did once.Some of the keys may not know their cueor have grown tiredof responding.

She fills a whole pageof letter after letter, bringing words together. Some days, she barely manages a few lines.

But each day,all these parts of herself line up,without a clue who may finallytake the stage.

Like this:

Low tide blends with the clouds,difficult to decipher land from sea from sky.Waves make great strides to define the shore, sandpipers scramble along an absent edge.The surf recedes, muffled by the wind.And you are dizzy with the pull.Uncertainof how to spinwithouta focal point, of how to walk,without holdingyourbreath.

Like this:

We are so certainof our tastes, our stylesour manufactured identities,defined by brandsand politics,by friendsand how we chooseto spend our time.

We are so certainof the things we don’t likeand half expect the rest of the worldto care.

But all these things you chooseor choose not to choosewon’t make much of a differenceto anyone tomorrow.

Some of the bumper stickers you flashed in your twentieshave faded.

In this hesitation and resistance to be defined by anyone,you find yourselfmore selective on how you share with your children,with your friends.

Of all the images,she chose a rose.Pale and spotted with rain or dew.Though I don’t really care for roses,I took her offering with grace.I looked againat the pale rose:open petalsabove thick leaves,in black and white.I considered the rose as a flavor component ofinfused teas and jams.And I found a recipe with raspberriesfor us to try in the summer.

~ Megan M. Codera

Like this:

Barren, gnarled alder groves,
laden with lichen,
rooted
in the tangled remains of winter.
So pale and dismal
against the chalk white sky.
Waiting and waiting
for a change in the light,
for some kind
of alternate definition.

Like this:

I run cold water
when I slice an onion.
I don’t know what it is
with me and onions,
but the burn pierces much deeper
than necessary,
much more
than I care to explain.

You may insist
on soaking or freezing
an onion
before slicing.
You may insist
that you would
never
let an onion
break you.

But this onion
is so smooth and crisp,
she knows
it will be pungent.
She holds her breath,
even though she can already feel
the fumes brushing her eyes.
She blinks hard
and turns away for a moment
before continuing to slice.
She takes off her glasses
and rubs her palms
on her eyes,
pressing too hard,
but it’s too late.
She puts down the knife,
lays her hands flat on the counter
and braces herself
against the waves.